I'm Special Too, Damn It
by tiromu
Summary: Shaun wished Malik would stop telling him how to woo Desmond. From the kink meme. Malik x Altair, Shaun x Desmond. M for some suggestive content and copious amounts of cursing.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The title is atrocious and makes absolutely no sense, sorry about that. This was originally in twelve parts, but I condensed it with line breaks between sections. I think it still works. Less clicking for the readers. _

_From the kink meme. The prompt was for a Shaun who had been in the Animus, with an Altair-loving Malik for his ancestor. Desmond shows up, and complications ahoy._

* * *

After days of sitting idly around in the Animus room, Rebecca and Shaun were at a loss for what to do. Rebecca was convinced there was nothing more she could do to improve on Abstergo's design for the machine, while Shaun had nothing to research and few other duties, and so the pair of them sat. And stared. They made small talk and Shaun was careful to keep an eye on any tactical matters the other assassins might require attending to, but for the most part, they had _nothing_ to do and were, regrettably, _bored_.

Rebecca had taken to playing her music at an altogether unreasonably high volume, holding one-person dance parties by her desk that drove Shaun _mad_, partially because he couldn't dance and so couldn't join her but mostly because she had absolutely _terrible_ taste in music. When she wasn't showing off her abominable preferences in musical entertainment, she sat at her computer and played solitaire, something Shaun absolutely _refused_ to do on principle, swearing if he ever got to that point, it would be an all-time low and he would never recover from the depression that was sure to follow. He had always managed to find _some_ way of keeping himself occupied, and he refused to let Rebecca's inane distractibility influence him. He was _clever_, damn it. He should be able to think of _something_, anything to stave off the crushing oppression of indolence. As more time went by, with the dance parties growing in alarming volume and frequency, a desire that Shaun had been nursing since they began constructing the Animus 2.0 was pushed to the forefront of his mind, and he found himself dwelling on it more and more, until finally he approached Rebecca with it.

"Listen, Rebecca, I—"

She paused, hip jutted out to the side and arms over her head, and craned her head to look over her shoulder, brow furrowed, and yelled over her music. "WHAT?"

Shaun had patience. Truly, he did. He knew he should have realized that she would not be able to hear him over the abominable sounds coming from her tinny computer speakers, but in that moment he wanted to smash said computer, and speakers, throw them out the window, and shake his fist at the sky with a fierce shout of victory; it was then that he knew he had wallowed in inactivity for _far_ too long. One calming, deep breath later, he stalked over to the computer and yanked the speaker cable from the back, relishing the silence that fell on his abused ears, ignoring Rebecca's look of reproach as she turned to face him fully, lowering her arms to fold across her chest.

"Now. As I was saying. Seeing as we are both shamefully bored out of our _bloody_ minds, I have an idea that will at least pass the time until . . . well, I don't know when, but at least until _something_ happens where we actually have _work_ to do."

"Pff, speak for yourself, Shaun. I _like_ dancing." When Shaun glared at her, she raised her hands defensively. "Fine, fine, what's this idea of yours?"

"Well, look. I know neither one of us is terribly important to this whole project as far as our genes go, but . . ." He let his voice trail off, suddenly unwilling to give voice to his longing to see the past in person. Still, she seemed to see what he was getting at.

"Ohh, no. No, no, no. You know what Lucy said, this thing is dangerous. Bad things can happen." Her head moved slowly from side to side, emphasizing her complete disapproval.

"Well, _you_ don't have to do it. I'll deal with the consequences." When she still seemed unconvinced, he pleaded, "Come_on_, Rebecca, this waiting is bloody killing me here." He knew he sounded petulant, but now that he had told her, however indirectly, he couldn't bring himself to back down, so he tried to appear determined, looking her defiantly in the eye.

"Shaun."

"Rebecca."

For a moment they merely stared at each other, eyes narrowing, until finally Rebecca threw her hands up and exclaimed, "Fine! Fine, fine, fine. If something happens to you, I'm not going to bother saving your ass _again_. Get in the damn chair." Under her breath, she muttered, "Lucy is going to kill me."

The thrill of victory sang through him, even as words of thanks flowed from his mouth, all semblances of his previous animosity and backbone melting away in light of his success. Shifting happily in his new seat, the red fabric rubbing pleasantly against his palms, Shaun waited for Rebecca to get the systems up and running, not even minding the distinctly unpleasant jolt from the needle jabbing him in the arm, so drunk with anticipatory glee was he.

"All right, Shaun, just relax. You've got a few memories here that are more complete than others, so I'm gonna try to find the one that's the least corrupted. And close your eyes."

As soon as his eyes shut, he felt himself pulled into a vast, empty void of white fog that he took to be a loading area. He panicked a little when he realized he wasn't actually _standing_ on anything, nor was there anything above him; there was absolutely _nothing_ at all _anywhere_, and he had to look down at his hands to reassure himself that at least _he_ was there, wherever _there_ was. Still, freakish realm of limbo or no, he was determined to see this through.

"Hey, Shaun. I have a memory here, and. I don't know, I'm not sure it's right but I'm going to try to load it, okay?" His eyes darted about wildly, trying to pinpoint the direction of Rebecca's voice, which seemed to come at him from all sides in a frankly unnerving manner and sounded hollow in the expanse of nothingness.

"Yes! Please do. This . . . whatever it is, is rather unsettling."

"All right, here goes nothing. . ."

The fog solidified and segmented like panes of glass all around him, and for a moment Shaun forgot to breathe, forgot how as the panes shifted and interconnected, slowly forming the familiar shapes of ground and buildings and people, that disappeared as walls came up around him, and then there were scents and sounds of sweat and murmuring voices, and a faint metallic taste in his mouth.

And then there was agony.

* * *

Malik writhed on the wooden table, splinters embedding themselves into his flesh as he jerked, spasms wracking his body uncontrollably as it attempted to run, hide, protect itself from the hands that held it down, from the glint of the blade that flashed briefly in the waning orange light lancing through the window from a setting sun before it entered his flesh.

Hoarse yells and screams ripped through his throat until he lost his voice despite his resolution to bear the pain with dignity, his nerves alight with liquid fire that filled his veins and pumped through his entire body with each agonizing beat of his heart. There could be no dignity in this. His fall was great, his losses many; with his brother he lost his soul, and with his arm he as good as lost his life; there is no use for a one-armed assassin. Foolishly, he had rejected all attempts by the surgeon to dull his senses with an anesthetic, had reacted violently when the surgeon attempted to override his objections through force, and now vaguely, through the maelstrom of agony that raged through his body, he could regret his decision.

_And Shaun writhed with him in the Animus chair as Rebecca tried to pull him out, tried to pause the memory tried to do_something_but the memory wouldn't let go and so she fretted, eyes squeezed shut and hands over her ears to block out all traces of the horrifying scene_

Eventually, mercifully, Malik blacked out from the pain, his muscles, his body still twitching, jerking in protest as the surgeon finished his deed, cauterizing the remainder of Malik's left arm just above the elbow. He mopped up the blood with rags and called for assistants to carry the unconscious man to a clean bed after gingerly wrapping the limb with bandages, shaking his head all the while. Outside, a single, harsh cry of an animal barked out into the night air and then all was silent once more.

_And then an indefinite period of darkness that the Animus skipped over--but Shaun remembered because now he_was_Malik, and he knew what had happened and felt the same fury for the same man for the same reasons, and he snapped at Rebecca, gasping but insistent, when she finally managed to pull him out, demanding that she send him right back in, because she had no right, and he wasn't sure if that was his own anger or leftover from Malik but then he was back and he didn't know yet just how much time had passed but it had been a while because everything was just a bit unfamiliar_

Malik paced the short distance between walls behind his counter, robes swishing about his feet, still feeling lopsided and a bit uncertain despite the exercises he had put himself through to at least be _competent_, to prove that he was _not_ an invalid, and so he would damn well at _least_ try to kill anyone who insinuated otherwise. He moved slowly, each foot deliberate on the floor, trying to ignore how his left arm wanted to swing opposite his right leg but could only shift uselessly at his side, bandages tugging uncomfortably at the pinned sleeve, trying to ignore the man who slept in the adjacent room, the man who was the reason for his asymmetry, and trying to quell his impotent anger and anguish and that well of emptiness deep within his chest where his heart beat, hollow and lifeless. He tried not to think of how much_better_ everything would have been if Altaїr had died instead. He tried to forget Kadar.

And failed.

* * *

Furious spluttering, cursing, and threats of bodily harm were ignored as Rebecca drew Shaun out of Malik's memories; he had been in there for _hours,_ many, many hours and whether he liked it or not, his body needed the break; his vitals had started doing interesting and frightening things, and she wasn't about to risk Lucy's wrath should Shaun accidentally _die_ while in the Animus when he wasn't even supposed to _be_ there in the first place.

The world seemed slightly off-kilter as Shaun leveraged himself out of the Animus chair with his right arm, bitterly angry at Rebecca for making him stop, though some part of him hissed in Arabic that _Rebecca_ was hardly the person to be angry at, _she_ hadn't as good as murdered his brother and left him ruined and useless with one arm. That thought gave him pause, because he didn't actually _have_ a brother, and groping at his left arm revealed that _he_ had not actually experienced any traumatizing amputation, not really, which he should have remembered on his own but right then everything was a little fuzzy around the edges. Reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that gnawing hunger in his gut and the fact that his body had _other_ needs that required attending to, so he let the stream of curses and threats trickle to a stop, letting Rebecca off the hook just this once. It wasn't until after he tried to take a step away from the chair that he realized the fuzziness wasn't leaving, and put his hand to his face to adjust his glasses.

"Rebecca, where are my glasses?" He turned his head to see that she had anticipated his request and snatched the frames from her extended hand, ignoring the look of concern in her eyes.

"So. . ." She said, wringing her hands in front of her nervously. "Malik, huh?"

A sigh of relief escaped Shaun when the world came into focus again, grateful that at least shitty vision wasn't a side-effect of the Animus, was just something he had all on his own, separating him from Malik, which for some reason was more difficult than it should have been at that moment.

"Apparently."

"And, you had no idea you had an assassin ancestor?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Of course not. How could I? I certainly wasn't raised as one."

She couldn't quite keep the skepticism from her face. "It's just, you don't seem very surprised about it. If it were me, I'd be flipping out."

"Rebecca, finding socks that match makes you _flip out_, I hardly think you're the best barometer for this situation." He edged toward the door, trying to be out of this conversation as quickly as possible.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I'm _fine_. Do you mind? My body has some things it would rather like to take care of."

"You were in _pain!_ I could _see_ it! And now you come out of there looking like you don't really know who you are? And get mad at me for being _concerned?_ For Christ's sake, Shaun." She threw her hands in the air in exasperation, taking a step toward him to halt his retreat.

"Look, you said yourself if something happened you wouldn't bother trying to save me again. So let's just leave it at that, all right? I said I'd deal with the consequences, and I will."

She gaped at him. "You don't think I was _serious_. You _can't_ think I was serious."

"Serious or not, I know what I want to do, and it does _not_ involve sitting around twiddling my _fucking_ thumbs for god knows how long."

"Shaun. . ." Her voice held a tone of warning that urged him to back down.

"Rebecca." Sighing, he passed his hand back through his hair. "I'll be fine. I _promise._"

Teeth worrying her lip, she hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. But if anything like _that_--" She gestured at his left arm, "--_ever_happens again, that's it. You're done, never again. Got it?"

He frowned, but nodded. He hadn't expected her to give in so readily. "Got it."

"Good. Now get out of here, limey."

He booked a hasty retreat before she could change her mind, leaving Rebecca looking faintly dissatisfied, more than a little worried, and to be honest a bit disappointed as she no doubt realized her dance parties were, in all likelihood, officially over.

* * *

Shaun didn't sleep, not really, merely stared up at the ceiling from his bed and let his thoughts wander. In the silence and security of his bedroom he allowed himself the tears Malik had stifled, though he could not claim the grief he felt as his own, no matter how real it seemed. Memory-pain twinged occasionally in his arm; he had to be careful to not think too closely on that, too, for his stomach would churn, horror rising with bile in his throat. And, no matter how many times he reminded himself that he still had full use of both of his arms and he was an only child, he could not help the emptiness of loss eating away at him.

It was with reluctant sighs and a few disapproving clicks of the tongue that Rebecca hooked him back up into the system in the morning after a rushed breakfast and shuffled him into the loading area, which he managed to find at least tolerable if he kept his eyes closed and pretended he could feel ground beneath his feet.

His reality fragmented around him once more, but this time, there was no trauma, no crushing waves of pain, only that dull, throbbing ache of futility as Shaun gave himself up and slipped into Malik's skin.

* * *

Altaїr had completed his mission. He had done what was required of him, but true to form he had disregarded everything that Malik felt he _ought_ to have learned, discretion in particular. Malik could only hope that he would be reprimanded by Al Mualim, at the very least, but he knew that, despite Altaїr's catastrophic failure as an assassin and a human being, he remained the treasured favorite, and so would likely be rewarded for that simple completion, that Malik was certain a callow novice could have managed with greater success. Were he _not_ so inexplicably valuable, he would be serving a proper punishment out in Masyaf, not running missions. A knife in the gut was by no means suitable, could not compare to his own suffering. And now Altaїr was arguing the details with him; a foolish ambition.

"We are on the same side, Malik."

Malik wished Altaїr would just _stop talking._ He could not recall them ever being friends, only grudging allies at best, and Malik found it difficult to believe Altair had ever looked out for anyone but himself. "We were _never_ on the same side. Do not pretend otherwise. Now go."

"Mal-"

"Get _out_ of my bureau, Altaїr. _Now_."

Malik found no satisfaction in Altaїr's retreating form, maintaining his glare even as he heard the scrape of boots against the wall, the rustling of robes as Altaїr vanished out the roof entrance to the bureau. He found little satisfaction in much of anything, of late. He had books, maps, informers and assassins to keep him company and occupy his time, but he knew he was not much for conversation, and he found himself in such a continual state of restless agitation that he could not focus on a text for any amount of time. Poring over maps, however, was a way for him to shut everything down, turn off his anger, his misery, and become empty. Perhaps he could not forget, could never be at peace, but he could give himself the illusion of such, if only temporarily.

Time passed, as indicated by the halting and fast-forwarding of the Animus, and pigeons arrived from other bureau leaders in Damascus and Acre, gossipy with news of the cities and the assassins on missions there, and unsurprisingly they insisted on sharing details of Altaїr's doings, no matter how often Malik sent furious replies that he did not care and would vastly prefer it if that name or the man owning it never found its way into his life again. However, while at first it seemed the others were just as disgusted as Malik thought they should be with Altaїr's arrogance and disrespect for all but himself, gradually they bore a sort of grudging respect bordering on open admiration: Altaїr was thorough, detail oriented, and if he had a flair for the publicly dramatic, he nevertheless was clearly skilled, and strangely compassionate, if the rumors of rescue from abusive guards were to be trusted. Malik had heard similar rumors in Jerusalem but had disregarded them as coincidence; now, he was not sure what to think. Compassion did not mesh with the image he had in his mind of Altaїr – arrogant and entirely self-serving. He felt his resolve begin to crack.

_And waking up from the Animus Shaun felt a similar mixture of confused emotions combined with the disorientation he experienced before, and wondered if Malik's loneliness was getting the better of them both_


	2. Chapter 2

_Shaun felt a surge of shock that mirrored Malik's at Altaїr's loud, blushing confession, an explosion of words and gestures that left them both reeling_

Malik gripped the counter with his one hand to steady himself, Altaїr's words pounding in his ears, repeating, over, and over, and over again. _I love you,_ and _I have always loved you_, and _Don't you get it, Malik?_ His vision narrowed, a dark tunnel with Altaїr at the focus, blood rushing through his veins, roaring through his head as his heart raced—-it had been anger, that easy rage that floated up effortlessly whenever Altaїr was around, but now? He was not sure.

All Malik knew was that, apparently, he had been _completely_ wrong about Altaїr. As wrong as he could have been. Something jerked within him in protest when Altaїr spun on his heel to leave with dread written on his face – plainly, his declaration had been _entirely_ unintentional and now all he wanted was to avoid having to face Malik's inevitable rejection.

"Don't you _dare_ leave now, Altaїr. Sit down." Malik gestured at the worn wooden table against the wall to his right when Altaїr paused in his retreat, glancing back over his shoulder from under his hood, expression hidden.

"I will not trouble you further, Malik. Safety and peace." Still, he hesitated, to Malik's satisfaction.

"Altaїr." The name came out as a low, dangerous growl, one that brooked no argument. "If you leave now, know that you will _never_ be welcome in this bureau again. Do you understand me?" That may have been an empty threat; Malik was not sure he truly could engineer such a prohibition, but he would surely make the attempt, and at the very least make Altaїr's life _hell_.

"I- Yes."

"Good. Now sit." Malik wanted to roll his eyes when Altaїr bristled at being ordered like a dog, but he had more pressing concerns than Altaїr's pride, so he merely focused his glare until the other acquiesced. "I must think."

Malik reclined against the bookcase behind him and leaned his head into his hand, propping his elbow up on a shelf, then closed his eyes. Over the past few months, the all-encompassing anger, regret, emptiness, misery, _everything_ had given way to something indefinable, as the more he heard from others suggested an entirely unexpected transformation of character, and indeed, even his own experience could provide evidence to that end, though he had wanted to ignore it. Sometimes, Malik had to admit that he did not _want_ to feel better, did not want to forgive, to let go of the feelings that had sustained him after the colossal nightmare that was Solomon's Temple. It was easier that way, and so bitterness became reflex. He turned his forehead into his palm, considering Altaїr's exclamation as his fingers worried his hair, nails scraping his scalp absently.

For someone who claimed to have always loved Malik, Altaїr surely had an interesting way of showing his affection. Every memory Malik had of the other man consisted of unreasonable rivalry, barbed insults and, of course, Altaїr pulling rank at every conceivable occasion, when all else failed to end an altercation. He tried to imagine himself as Altaїr, tried to imagine love and pride existing concurrently, then shook his head.

_I love you. I have always loved you._ Malik could not deny that, at least before, those feelings had been reciprocated. _Why else_, he thought, _would I have gone after him when he confronted Robert de Sable? I should have let de Sable take his life. He would have never known Kadar and I were there, and we could have completed the mission properly._ That would have been the sensible way to handle the situation, but something had overcome him when he saw Altaїr approach the Templar. And now, for all that he had contemplated colorful and creative ends to Altaїr's life, in the end it came down to petulance, a child-like desire for revenge. He had felt betrayed, in more ways than one, and let that feeling consume him.

A quiet groan escaped his lips as he felt that flicker of affection re-ignite, and he cracked an eye open to glance sidelong at Altaїr, who was perched on a stool, leaning against the table and staring down at the extended hidden blade protruding seemingly from his knuckle, while his right hand discreetly worried the hem of his robes. Altaїr turned his wrist, watching the light reflect off of the gleaming metal. Malik had to wonder if Altaїr was thinking about his missing finger, whether he compared it to Malik's arm, and whether that troubled him at all. Given what Malik now knew about Altaїr, it probably did.

He cleared his throat, pushing himself away from the bookcase, and Altaїr looked up at him, the blade retracting back into the bracer, expression unreadable. While Malik struggled to find the right words to say, Altaїr held up a hand, brow furrowing.

"Malik." He sighed, lowering his hand to his lap to worry the hem of his robes once more. "I. . . am sorry."

Malik blinked. "What?"

"For everything. I'm sorry. I was. . ." He shook his head. "I didn't want you to know, so I pushed you away. I was a fool."

"Not that I disagree, but. . ?"

Altaїr gave him a _look_. "How do you think I felt, being in love? Having a _weakness_ like that." Even now, he sounded slightly disgusted with himself, and he muttered, ". . .Too proud."

Malik's eyebrows rose a little. "You are being surprisingly frank about this."

"I do not have much else to lose. Though, you could always kill me, as would be your right. I should be grateful you haven't already." His eyes closed as though in preparation for such an act, calmly waiting for his end.

"I have no intention of killing you, Altaїr, for all that you owe me a life." Pulling his robes tightly around him, he made his way out from behind the counter, kicking the gate open then nudging it closed again with his foot from the other side. He paused there, a few feet from the white-robed assassin.

"No? Even though I have caused you so much harm? You surprise me, Malik."

"Do not think I have not considered various and sundry methods to such an end," Malik snapped. "I have come to the conclusion, however, that you are not the same man now as you were then, so I cannot accept your apology." When Altaїr looked painfully confused, Malik had to smile just a little-- an old, unfamiliar contortion on a face long used to more somber expressions. "And you were not entirely at fault."

"What? If it weren't for me—"

"You are not the only proud man here, Altaїr." His hand clenched around his robes with that near-confession, and he hoped Altaїr would comprehend his meaning without having to spell it out.

One does not become a master assassin with physical skill alone—one must be clever and perceptive, among other things. Malik could forget those other requirements while wallowing in self-pity and self-righteous anger, but the look in Altaїr's eyes and the way his lips slowly curled into a smirk as comprehension dawned served as an adequate reminder.

Blood pounded in Malik's ears once more when Altaїr stood, a fluid, confident motion that had Malik thinking perhaps the man hadn't changed quite so much after all but maybe he did not mind that, no, he _definitely_ did not mind that, not at all, because Altaїr's hand was on his, forcing it to release his robes so he could bring it to his lips; Malik's eyes rolled up and he closed them at that tiny gesture, felt the heat in his face and the tiny breath of air that escaped his lungs as finally he felt _alive_.

_And Shaun had to make Rebecca swear on pain of death to never, ever tell anyone ever about what happened next, and spent that night, as with every other night since he'd been in the Animus, staring at his ceiling, this time remembering strong hands on his body, desperately mapping out every inch, every contour, every dip and curve, every imperfection, even his ruined left arm, and the mouth that followed, tearing shameful gasps and moans from his throat; remembered words whispered like a mantra over and over again in his ears as their sweat-slicked bodies pressed together, clutching, holding on for dear life, because if they let go they might never find each other again_

_

* * *

_

Shaun was not. a. vailable. He had been staring at his computer screen for several minutes, hardly believing he wasn't in the Animus, wasn't reliving Malik's life, hadn't been in _days_ and in all likelihood never would be again. Not that he disliked research done the traditional way (as though his desire to see what transpired in the Animus had anything to do with historical data rather than voyeurism and wish-fulfillment); it was something he specialized in, after all.

_But he couldn't shake the thoughts of scarred lips on his own, quick and needy over the bureau counter before Altaїr left for a mission, or the memory of that gnawing worry that ate him from the inside out when Altaїr insisted on confronting de Sable once more; thoughts of Masyaf with the trees in bloom in the Gardens, feeling foolish and romantic when pale pink petals, sweetly aromatic, tickled his face, Altaїr's rare laughter caught and carried by the wind_

It took Shaun a moment to realize Rebecca had been speaking to him, possibly for a few minutes, prattling on and on about something Shaun was certain he did not care about, until she said _Altaїr_, and _Animus_ and _Templars_ and _Lucy_ and finally he had absolutely no idea what she was on about but figured it might be a good idea to start listening, especially since she just asked him a question.

"Um." Shaun could not escape his own razor wit, which hissed, _Oh, brilliant response. Clearly, years of post-secondary education did not go to waste; well done, lad, well done._

"I swear to god, Shaun, you've been like this ever since we had to stop putting you in the Animus. Were you even listening to me?"

"Of course I—" At Rebecca's narrowed eyes and disbelieving snort, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "All right, no, I wasn't. Sorry. You were saying?"

The knowing smirk and wicked gleam in her eyes put an uneasy stirring in Shaun's stomach, and she said, "Oh, nothing much, only that Lucy's gonna be coming back in, oh, two hours or so, with some guy the Templars picked up._Apparently_," and now that mischievous grin really unsettled Shaun, "they just got done running him through the same memories you experienced. Except _he_ got to see them from Altaїr's point of view."

_Which meant he got to see them married, somehow still maddeningly in love even as they swore loyalty to another at a short, shared ceremony, and their wives had to have known, must have seen that at that moment they were more wed to each other than they could ever have been to any woman but they never said anything, never questioned or made demands; it meant he saw them fight--those painful, terrifying moments when it seemed they would never reconcile their differences, the gap between them so great that when they finally made up it was the sweetest blessing, swearing empty oaths to never let it happen again_

"Oh. Oh god." He knew his horror was painted across his face, plain as day, and he wondered if he could maybe hide under his desk or work from his bedroom for all eternity, completely unashamed of his cowardice.

"Relax, it's not like he'd know you or anything. You don't look a thing like Malik."

"Then why do you look so _delighted?_"

She snickered a little. "Oh, Shaun, I just like seeing you squirm."

"You are _evil_. You're evil and I hate you."

Rebecca just cackled and rubbed her hands together from behind her desk, then turned her music up. _Evil._ Shaun barely registered the pain of his forehead striking his desk.

* * *

Judging from the shocked expression on Rebecca's face mirroring his own when Lucy waltzed in (as though she _hadn't_ been absent for seven years), she had not anticipated the _striking_ resemblance Desmond bore to Altaїr either. A surge of entirely inappropriate affection welled up within him, carrying him over to greet the Abstergo escapees with uncharacteristic friendliness, and by the time he came back to himself he was in front of his computer once again, staggered by the way the part of him that felt what Malik felt and wanted what Malik wanted had nearly grabbed Desmond and pushed him into the nearest available surface, covering that scarred mouth with his own and _Christ_, why did he have to have that god damned scar?

And then, _then_, he was _talking_ to him and oh god, he needed to say something say _anything_ to get him away, so he drew from the best of his worst side and maybe a little bit of Malik's and it was with some relief that he felt more than saw Desmond's bemused retreat following some nasty barbs. He waited until Desmond was out cold in the Animus before burying his face in his hands, anticipating Rebecca's inevitable peal of laughter.

It never came. A quick peek over his shoulder revealed Rebecca just staring at him, with Lucy pursing her lips and shifting her gaze between them, suspicious. Cocking a fist to her hip, she said to the air, "Oh, it's good to see you, Lucy! How have you been? How about those Templars, huh?"

Rebecca recovered first, "Sorry, Luce! We were just, uh, startled. How-- how are you?" Shaun groaned and once again contemplated hiding under his desk, because now Lucy would ask _why_ they were startled, and then they'd have to spill everything, and she would either kill them both or . . . He wasn't sure what else, but he imagined it would be unpleasant.

"Startled by what? You knew I was coming."

"N-not by _you_. . ." Shaun wanted to shout at Rebecca to _stop digging their graves please_ but that would hardly have been any more sensible so he merely kept his mouth shut and hoped. Just hoped.

"Desmond? You knew he was coming, too. What is going _on_, you guys?"

"W-well. . ." Looking over his shoulder again, Shaun saw Rebecca staring desperately at his back, so with another miserable moan he waved his hand at her in hopeless assent, then turned his chair to face them.

She tried again. "Y'see, Luce. . . Ah. . ." Apparently, Rebecca was having difficulty articulating their unfortunate breach of protocol, and Shaun's patience snapped. Dodging around the subject would only make it worse.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. Lucy, sorry, but we got _bored_, and I went in the Animus."

"You what?" Surprisingly, it wasn't the crushing rage he'd expected; though that was very likely to come, once she got over the shock of their impetuous behavior.

"Right, that's not the fun bit, actually. Turns out—"

"Malik is his ancestor!" Ah, at last, Rebecca's tongue found its way around words again, cutting across what Shaun was convinced would have been an eloquent explanation of the situation, but was now reduced to four short terms.

"W-w-what—I don't—" Lucy was shaking her head, unmistakably _baffled_.

"All right, actually, that is _still_ not the fun bit. As it turns out," and he glared at Rebecca, warning her to not interrupt him again, irritation overruling his terror, "Malik and Altaїr were. . . lovers."

Dead. Silence.

"You have _got_ to be shitting me," Lucy finally said in a low voice, eyes wide, a strange, half-smile on her face, as though she just knew they were fucking with her, and any minute they'd start cracking up and say, _Fooled you! Welcome back, Lucy!_ Except they _didn't_, and so that smile faded and she just stared at them, then at Desmond.

"Oh, god. Shaun, I don't think he knows."

_That_ startled him. It had never occurred to him that Altaїr's descendant wouldn't have experienced the exact sequence of events he had, would not have seen those intimate moments between lovers, and it was inexplicably heartbreaking, to not have someone he could share that with, had he chosen to. Not that he _would_ have, but he liked to keep his options open.

"Oh. Really?" Tried to sound nonchalant. Didn't quite fail.

She shook her head, and he tried to ignore the way Rebecca shot him a look of pity, as though she knew something he didn't, or wouldn't admit to. "No. Nothing. . . nothing like that ever came up in Altaїr's memories, not in the Animus. Just business, from Solomon's Temple to defeating Al Mualim."

"Ah. Well, good." He nodded decisively.

"Now," Lucy said, rounding on Rebecca, "Just what the hell were you thinking, letting him in there?"

Sensing he was somewhat off the hook for the moment, Shaun decided it was safe to tune them out, so he returned to the task at hand, reflecting on the fact that Desmond hadn't explicitly seen their relationship in the Animus. Except Shaun knew that at least a few of his memories from Malik came from those periods the Animus skipped, but still unlocked in his brain, and if he got as far as that final confrontation that had nearly broken Altaїr, there was still a chance he knew, and so it was a pearl of hope and dread that nestled there in his chest as he sat at his computer, feeding information into the Animus database.

* * *

Things only got worse for Shaun, the longer Desmond was around. He wanted to reach right back in time, grab Malik by his stupid, oversexed neck and shake the life out of him for making everything _impossibly_ difficult. Productivity declined _markedly_ whenever Desmond was awake, either from sleep or the Animus, so Shaun ended up taking extra-long nights to make up for it, though even then he was uncomfortably aware of Desmond's presence on the bed on the other side of the room. He almost regretted ever deciding to use the Animus, if it meant Malik would always be there, somewhere within him, feeding him memories.

_Like when Malik was at a loss for what to do, because Altaїr would not stop using the Apple, and no amount of cunningly worded arguments could counter the immutable "No," so he finally broke down and confessed his concern to his wife, and while he never voiced what she must have already known, she merely fixed him with a level gaze and told him: if words were not working, perhaps his actions would be more convincing, and it took him a minute to fully grasp her meaning and--_

Shaun let out a growl of frustration, forcing that thought aside because it was hard enough to focus without Malik swooning and angsting behind the scenes, what with Lucy putting Desmond through the paces in the warehouse, and all he could think about was that agile body he knew so well—-except he _didn't_ know it, and that was incredibly _frustrating_. It didn't help that Desmond evidently meant well, and probably just wanted to fit in with their little group, and if Malik hadn't been clawing, trying to force his way out of Shaun's skin he might have been perfectly receptive to Desmond's overtures, though at some level he appreciated, and _liked_ that the other had even taken an interest at all, and continued to ask questions, navigating around the wards Shaun threw up desperately to keep himself from behaving _rashly._

The way Lucy avoided his eyes when she returned without Desmond made Shaun inexplicably nervous, and when Desmond didn't return until _much_ later in the evening, giving Lucy a look and a smile that made Malik growl jealously, Shaun was _floored_, even as he snapped at his ancestor for hypocrisy and inconsistency, because both he and Altaїr had wives, so why was this any different? But he knew the answer. Desmond was not his, and that was _horrible_ even if he didn't want to admit it.

He couldn't look at anyone. Blank shock had taken hold, and he knew if he saw that _pity_ in Rebecca's face again he'd lose it, if he saw whatever Lucy had to offer him he would lose it, and no matter what Desmond did, he _knew_ he would lose it, so he sat rigidly in his chair staring at his computer, forcing his fingers to move on the keyboard and cursing himself and his ancestor for making such a _goddamn mess_ of things.

Conversation, if it could be called that, with Desmond became _considerably_ more strained thereafter; at least, it felt that way to Shaun, who could not get the image of that _smile_ and the way Lucy wouldn't look at him out of his head. That little bit of hope within him had _died._ Finally, when his resentment began bleeding over into other aspects of his life beyond _Desmond_, Lucy confronted him in the hallway, pinning him with a hard glare.

"We need to talk."

Shaun knew better than to sass her; she could very easily hand his ass to him on a platter if she were so inclined, so he kept his tongue in check. "If you insist."

"I _do._ Listen, I respect that you have something of a prior claim on Desmond, which is why I'm going to give you a week."

Speechless, Shaun could only open his mouth for a few moments before his vocal tract would function once more. "A-a week? For what?"

"To sort out whatever is going on in your head and make your move. Don't." She held up her hand when she sensed a scoffing protest. "You've been a miserable bastard to deal with. 'Becca assures me you were fine before Desmond showed up, and we _both_ have seen how you look at him." How Shaun _looked_ at Desmond? He hoped faintly that this was a nightmare, or that the floor would open up and swallow him, or _anything_, just so he didn't have to continue experiencing this mortification. She smiled, a little sad. "One week. After that, I'm going to assume he's fair game." She patted his arm, and then left him standing there in the hallway, drowning in uncertainty.


	3. Chapter 3

Shaun knew he had said something wrong when Desmond managed a spit-take, eyes bugging from his head, and a quick review of the Arabic he had muttered made him want to slap his forehead, cursing himself as a bloody _idiot_. It had been safe, he thought; he did his best to ignore Desmond, lately, and he had hoped Desmond was kind enough to maybe even _occasionally_ return the favor. Plainly, he had been mistaken, and now Desmond was looking at him like he'd grown two additional heads and oh god, now what?

"Holy shit. Holy shit. Hold on. What did you say?" Desmond wiped his mouth with his sleeve, mopping up the soda he had sprayed so attractively everywhere in his shock.

"Nothing, Desmond. Go away." If Shaun had wanted to be left alone to eat in peace before, without those obnoxious and irritating feelings bubbling up whenever Desmond came into play, then he _certainly_ wanted solitude now, so he could berate himself thoroughly for his carelessness, and nurse that bitterness he'd been carrying within him. To hell with Lucy's one-week ultimatum.

"No, no, no. You can't know about that. How could you know about that?" Clearly, Desmond was unconvinced by Shaun's eloquent denial, and went straight for the throat, though Shaun hardly noticed through the delight that sparked as he _finally _had confirmation that Desmond knew, he _knew_ about Malik and Altaїr, and that was comforting. Even if he didn't want to deal with this mess, it was still . . . _nice._

Thinking quickly, Shaun replied, "I looked over the memories recorded from Abstergo, obviously." _Shit_. Now he'd admitted to what he'd said. _I cannot imagine why Malik would think you would be a good lay_. It'd been stupid to even voice that thought, and now look where it got him. Not to mention it was a _complete lie_. One glance at Desmond had Shaun thinking, separate from Malik, of just how good he thought that experience would be.

"Uhhuhh, no, I don't think so. The Animus skipped over those. What the hell, Shaun?" Desmond blocked the doorway when Shaun tried to take his dinner of noodles and parmesan cheese elsewhere, somewhere far, _far_ away from this whole damn situation.

"Let me go, Desmond."

"No way. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."

If Shaun's hands hadn't been full, he would have pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation; as it was, he shut his eyes and strove for patience and peace of mind. Then again, if his hands hadn't been full he might just have messed up that pretty face with his fists and solved that problem right there. That, or do other, _less appropriate_ things that would land him in a great deal more trouble than was worthwhile.

"Desmond, _get out of my way_." Shaun was dangerously close to losing his temper.

"_Tell me how you know._"

"Because I bloody well _saw_ it, all right? _Blimey_, Desmond, use your fucking head."

"What—how—_You?_" Desmond's mouth opened and shut a few times, and with a sinking heart Shaun knew he would have to divulge, confess, _pour his fucking heart out_ but strangely it wasn't the terrifying thought he'd imagined it to be.

With a sigh, Shaun placed his plate and glass of water back on the table, pulling out two chairs for them to sit in. He took his place and gestured for Desmond to do the same, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face with his other hand. When Desmond was seated, Shaun took a deep breath, replaced his glasses, and fixed Desmond with a look bordering on a glare.

"I saw the memories because Malik is my ancestor, all right? We had some free time and I wanted to see what it was like in there. Came as a bit of a shock, let me tell you." He winced and touched his left arm. "Turns out you're not the only special one here."

Desmond swallowed hard at the gesture, then, eyes wide, looked Shaun up and down as though re-evaluating the man entirely, and Shaun wondered if Altaїr was now hassling him the way Malik always did when Desmond was around. "But, you said you weren't raised an assassin?"

"I wasn't. Like I said, it came as a shock."

"A-and the arm?"

"That was actually the first memory I experienced. Must have been pretty important to Malik, I imagine."

Desmond grimaced, a flash of guilt sweeping across his face, and Shaun regretted his words; for an instant he wanted to pin that regret on Malik, but he knew, suddenly, that would have been a lie, just like almost everything else he had been pinning on Malik had been a lie. _Shaun_ wanted Desmond, had craved the closeness and affection he'd experienced in another life, and while Malik may have influenced his inclination, Shaun had to take responsibility for his emotions.

But not yet. He was only a day into his week; he could afford a little procrastination.

"Now that we have cleared that up, would you mind leaving me to my dinner? Actually working gives me a bit of an appetite." The words were familiar, but the tone lacked its usual bite, for they both knew how stressful the Animus could be; Desmond let out a single, breathless laugh, apparently still caught up on the part where _Malik was Shaun's ancestor_. Shaun merely smiled a little and returned to his dinner; he'd had enough of self-honesty for the day.

* * *

Desmond was _avoiding_ Shaun. At first, Shaun thought perhaps it was just coincidental that immediately after learning Shaun's little secret Desmond made himself as scarce as possible, but then it became _perfectly_ clear what was happening. He wasn't even bothering being _discreet_ about it; if possible, he left the room when Shaun entered, and turned around and walked away if encountered in the hall, a strange, panicked expression on his face. This would have been a _catastrophe_ if Lucy weren't suffering the same treatment, though it wasn't by any means comforting. Though, it did bode well for his one-week deadline (that he did _not_ care about and _was not_ constantly brooding over as it rapidly came to a close).

Considering how Malik continually tried to give him advice and instruct him on how to woo Desmond, Shaun could understand the avoidance if Altaїr was giving him the same treatment. It was hard enough, sorting out romantic feelings, without having to also consider _whose_ feelings were whose and struggling to maintain a sense of self. Though, he was fairly certain Malik nevertheless retained a certain hold over him, urging him to chase Desmond down and force some sense into him in whatever way necessary, reminding him of his own methods.

_In the end, Malik had taken his wife's advice, as bizarre as it seemed coming from her, forcibly dragging Altair from the Apple with his one hand, taking advantage of the disorientation Altaїr experienced in the sudden disconnect in order to shove him against the wall, pressing his thigh between his legs to hold him in place as best he could, then releasing his robes to slap him forcefully in the face, hoping to ignite some sort of outrage in the eyes that had turned blank and glassy and only partially succeeding; but he could not let that deter him, because they had grown too far apart since Altaїr's infatuation and Malik missed him, missed him terribly, so instead of further physical violence, he hooked his hand behind Altaїr's neck and pressed their lips together once, gently, then again, their bodies flush together, until he felt Altaїr respond, his body stirring, hands coming up to Malik's waist, snaking inside his outermost robe to the small of his back and holding him tight, smirking a little against Malik's mouth when he let out a small, relieved moan, taking advantage of the way his mouth opened when that sound escaped him by slipping his tongue in to caress Malik's, and then they were much less gentle with one another as raw need gripped them_

And while that sounded _incredibly_ appealing to Shaun for a number of reasons, he had a strong feeling that such an approach would only further complicate matters. He sighed, closing the book he had decided to try to read to distract him from all of this _ridiculous_ and irritating emotional drama he was putting himself through. Glancing at the clock, he decided it was still early enough to bother Rebecca, who routinely stayed up all night doing god knows _what_, and so he swung his legs free from the confines of his blankets and pushed himself out of bed, slipping his feet into slippers so he could make the short trip from his room to hers.

From beyond her door came muffled noises that _could_ have been music, and he scowled, then raised his fist to knock on her door, pounding harder when it seemed she couldn't hear over the racket of her "music."

Abruptly the noises quieted, and the door jerked open, revealing a sweaty and flushed Rebecca, who took one look at him and said, "Nice jammies."

He looked down, and couldn't see anything particularly special or humorous about them, just drawstring cloth pants and a light button-up pajama shirt, so he gave her a strange look. "What are you talking about? They're just pajamas."

"Right, they look comfy. What's up?"

He shook his head, already exasperated and regretting this decision. "May I come in? I'd like to talk." She chewed her lip a moment then nodded, stepping aside and pulling the door open to reveal an unholy mess of clothing and dishes that had Shaun wondering just _how_ old Rebecca was again, wondering how she even had enough space for dancing, which she undoubtedly had been doing.

She left the door open and moved around him to sit at her desk, scooting her chair back to prop her feet up, and folded her arms across her chest, then asked again, "What's up?"

He didn't bother beating about the bush. "What do I do about Desmond?"

"What do you mean?"

He forced himself to not shout at her, _What the hell do you mean, 'what do you mean?' Haven't you been paying attention?_because he figured she might actually _not_ have been paying attention, because their little world did not, in fact, revolve around his pathetic excuse for a love life and she had quite a bit of work to keep her occupied, so he just sighed, running a hand tiredly through his hair, and said, "He's been avoiding me, ever since he found out about Malik being my ancestor, and because of this whole thing with Lucy, if I don't do something soon, I might never have another chance."

"Do you love him?" Apparently, Rebecca saw the virtues of speaking to-the-point as well, in a way that made him quite uncomfortable at present.

"Um."

Her eyes flickered to something over his shoulder, but before he could follow her gaze, she stood up abruptly and stepped toward him, grabbing the front of his shirt and forcing their lips together in a gesture that had both him and Malik shocked into frozen silence, only spurred into action, shoving her away, when he heard a strangled sound from the doorway and then the sound of hurried, retreating footsteps.

"What—What the bloody hell, Rebecca?" His hand wiped at his lips, feeling a bit ill as he considered _who_ had just been in the doorway.

A smug expression settled onto her face as she waved a hand at him. "Go get him, Shaun."

"What?"

She sighed. "Look, he's probably been freaking out because of this whole ancestor thing, but the guy clearly likes you, at the _very_ least. I just made him realize it." A finger jabbed at the open door behind him, and she was grinning. "Now _go_ and knock some sense into him, before it's too late."

Shaun's feet moved of their own volition, stumbling back as he followed her advice, cursing and twisting his body to face _forward_, muttering, "You had better be right, you _tit._"

* * *

All Shaun had to do was follow the sound of muttering in Arabic, a trail that led Shaun into the warehouse and down the ramp, where it was a bit more difficult to determine direction with Desmond's voice echoing off the walls, bouncing off the crates, while Malik upbraided him for carelessness and letting his lover get hurt; never mind the rather crucial fact that they were _not_ lovers, and that was actually what this whole bloody mess was about in the first place, no, never mind that. At the back of Shaun's mind he swore he would _kill_ Rebecca if she was wrong, if he was wasting his time, and _damn_ the consequences; he was pretty sure Lucy could figure out how to run the Animus without her, and she had _no business_ kissing him like that, especially with Desmond _watching,_ and that sick dread churned in his stomach again as he worried that maybe she had just ruined everything, and maybe she had been on _Lucy's_ side the whole time, and suddenly he didn't feel like playing any more games so he stopped dead in the middle of the warehouse floor and sighed theatrically.

"Desmond, I am in absolutely _no_ mood to go chasing you around the building, so if you would kindly stop acting like a_child_ and come out, that would be fantastic, thanks." He spoke to the air, the crates, figuring Desmond was around somewhere even though the cursing seemed to have stopped, and he no doubt heard him, so he just folded his arms across his chest and reflected that it was a bit cooler in the warehouse than his bedroom, and long sleeves or no, his pajama shirt was not meant to withstand chilly climes. If Desmond didn't hurry up, impending love confession aside, Shaun would have to take this up another time because he was not prepared to suffer _quite_ so much discomfort. Malik snorted and called him a _liar,_ and an asshole because calling his love interest a child was surely a brilliant way to win his affections, which Shaun ignored because he was tired of feeling schizophrenic when Desmond was involved, and just for once wanted to experience something without his ancestor breathing down his neck, shoving him in the back, whispering in his ear and just getting in the way.

Silence met Shaun's demands, so after a few minutes of just standing, waiting, staring at the ceiling, the crates, the floor, his slippers, he sighed again, quieter, sadder, disappointed, then slowly turned and walked back to the ramp that would take him from the chill of the warehouse and away from his chance at _something_ he suspected would have been _brilliant_, lips thinning with a mix of emotions, none of them pleasant, because he had almost _believed_ Rebecca, and after he had chiseled away the stone that seemed to have settled in his chest, his stomach, his whole being he'd maybe consider strangling her in her sleep.

He'd imagined, while chasing Desmond down, that this moment would be a bit like Malik and Altair's, that they'd exchange a few words, and obliquely come to a mutual understanding, culminating in a bit of physical exploration; but of course he was not Malik, and Desmond was not Altair, and they hadn't known each other all their lives, and they hadn't shared any bond from experience, any great tragedy and subsequent reconciliation, only a strange coincidence that was hardly enough to be any kind of suitable foundation for the kind of feelings Shaun had for Desmond now.

"Shaun, wait."

Shaun's heart stopped.

* * *

When his heart remembered how to beat again, it made up for the stall by pounding, racing double-time, and Shaun closed his eyes, willing himself to not get his bloody hopes up _again_, because setting himself up for disappointment was becoming a disgusting trend that he'd rather not continue. Turning and opening his eyes, he drank in the sight of Desmond in a thin undershirt that seemed to cling to his muscles in all the right ways and black pajama slacks that hung loosely around his hips, and Shaun was inclined to agree with Malik, who was murmuring to Shaun all the things he should do to Desmond, but then had to remind himself that he _couldn't_ do anything like that, that Desmond probably didn't want it and could they just try to focus on something else, please? For example, the way Desmond was appraising him in a similar manner, only instead of looking like he wanted to tear off all of Shaun's clothes, he looked faintly amused despite himself.

Annoyed, because Desmond had _no_ reason to be amused, Shaun snapped, "_What?_"

"Nice jammies."

Shaun thought he just might kill Rebecca regardless of the outcome of this nightmare of a situation. "What _exactly_ is wrong with my pajamas? Are they stained, or something? Because as far as _I_ knew, they were just _regular pajamas!_"

Desmond shrugged. "They look comfy."

It felt as though someone was strangling Shaun, or perhaps that was just his _incandescent rage._ "Rebecca should have kissed _you_. You two are just _perfect_ for each other," he snarled, not thinking.

He had the sense to regret it when that tiny, amused smile vanished instantly from Desmond's face, that scar tugging downward into an equally tiny frown, but enough that Shaun knew he'd just said something _incredibly _stupid.

"Right. Sorry I interrupted you guys." Desmond's voice conveyed something entirely unapologetic, bordering on animosity and _sarcasm_, of all things, which Shaun vaguely thought was a bit unfair, having officially cornered the market on such attributes.

Shaun pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "Really, don't be. She _would_ have kissed you, were our roles reversed." _And I _would_ have killed her for that, as well,_ he thought.

Shaun was perversely pleased with the faint look of distaste that swept across Desmond's face, gone as quickly as it came, to be replaced by that same tiny frown. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Shaun hadn't planned any grand speech, hadn't spent hours thinking of exactly how to word whatever he had to say to Desmond, so for a few moments he just stared at the man, with Malik shrugging in the recesses of his brain, telling him it was all on his shoulders now, so it was no surprise that Desmond shifted, plainly irritated and opened his mouth to say something probably along the lines of _what is your fucking problem_ or maybe not quite so harsh but right when those lips parted Shaun knew he had to say _anything_ to keep this from turning into one of their admittedly one-sided arguments, with Shaun reminding Desmond of his complete inadequacy, when that was _exactly_ the opposite of what Shaun felt, because Desmond was actually more than adequate, and maybe precisely everything Shaun needed.

"Desmond. Listen, I—" He brought his left hand to his forehead, trying to formulate some sort of articulate and meaningful declaration of his feelings, and Desmond made a small, surprised sound that had Shaun raising his eyebrows questioningly.

"You favor your right hand when you know I'm around. Usually, I mean."

Shaun lowered his hand from his face, staring at it, a little confused. "Well, I am right handed, Desmond. . ."

Desmond shook his head. "No, I mean, it's exclusive. It's like you forget your left arm is there." He didn't say _like Malik_, but he may as well have.

"I- I didn't even notice," Shaun said, because he _hadn't,_ which was odd because that was the sort of thing he normally_would_ have been aware of, and then he had to marvel that _Desmond_ had noticed, and that hope was back, the faintest fragment and it was enough. "Only when I know you're around, then? I suppose you spend a lot of time spying on me from afar?" He let a smile take one side of his mouth, not willing just yet to commit to a proper grin, because it was just a_fragment_ of hope, after all.

The smile did not go unnoticed. Shaun saw Desmond's eyes shift to his mouth then back to a place just to Shaun's left, to avoid looking him in the eyes, Shaun supposed. He had a slightly conflicted look about him, as though uncertain of quite where he stood at this point, then said, "Maybe?"

Shaun snorted. "That is, of course, not at _all_ creepy. I feel very secure, knowing you're _stalking_ me."

"Well what else could I do? Any time I try to _talk_ to you, you act like you're gonna rip my throat out." Desmond was almost smiling now, and Shaun took that to be a _very_ good sign.

"And _that_ is because every time you talk to me, Malik tries to get me to bend you over my desk and—" And Shaun had not actually meant to _say_ that, and he thought wildly, _Oh, Christ, this cannot end well, it just cannot_ but then Desmond was _laughing_, a loud, joyous sound that made Shaun feel just a little bit weak with relief.

"Oh, god, you have no idea how often Altair said the same thing," Desmond said, wiping his eyes, and now Shaun was grinning madly. But then Desmond's smile faltered a little, and his brow furrowed. "So, are you just being—" and he waved a hand to encompass everything Shaun _was_ at that moment, "because of Malik?"

"_No_. No. Desmond, no. Malik has been surprisingly taciturn, actually. This," Shaun said, "is _me_. Just me." He extended his right hand. "Shaun Hastings, at your service."

Desmond took his hand, a bit hesitantly. "Desmond Miles."

"A pleasure to meet you, Desmond."

Shaun decided he really enjoyed the way Desmond's hand felt in his own, a bit rough with newly-formed calluses, and while he didn't keep the same grip from the handshake, he didn't let go, and looked Desmond square in the eye.

"Desmond—" He hesitated again.

"Shaun." Desmond took advantage of his pause to mimic him, and from that little interruption Shaun decided to say _fuck it all._

"Oh, to hell with this. Desmond, I love you."

For all that he'd fretted and fussed about that moment, it was wonderfully painless, especially with the way Desmond met his gaze and tightened his grip on Shaun's hand and did _not_ run away, and suddenly Shaun knew he didn't have to hope anymore.

"Yeah." Desmond coughed a little. "I love you, too."

And then Shaun wasn't quite sure how it happened, but Desmond's mouth was on his own, just the way he'd wanted from the instant he'd set eyes on him, and it was exactly, perfectly, _everything_ he wanted out of life right then, and hang the Templars and this whole fucking war and the Animus, all of that could just _piss off_. And maybe Malik hummed approvingly, somewhere, faintly in the background but Shaun was so far beyond caring, with Desmond's hands pulling him close, and his mouth tasting different than the way Malik remembered Altair's, which was _great_ because Shaun didn't_want_ this to be like them, not now, not when it was so deliciously _him_ and _Desmond_, and they were _here_ and _now_, not countless miles and years and lifetimes away.

Desmond rested his forehead against Shaun's, both a little breathless, and he asked, "Really?"

Rather than answer immediately, Shaun kissed him again, slow, careful, and deliberate. "Obviously." On a whim, he flicked his tongue out to trace that scar, and immediately, the mood took a _decidedly_ different turn, and the warehouse suddenly didn't seem quite so chilly anymore.

Shaun was grateful that Malik had decided to shut up for fucking _once_, maintaining this rare reticence he'd adopted. Shaun looked forward to creating his _own_ narration of events, he thought, with Desmond grasping at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, and muttering in his ear that he'd rather find a bed than do this on the _crates_, words that sent a rush of heat flooding _south_ and had Shaun grabbing Desmond by the hand again and leading him out of the warehouse toward his bedroom, the pair of them making stops along the way to press against the railing, the wall, Shaun's _door_, desperate for the pressure, the comfort, the all-encompassing _need_ and _want_ that surged and sparked between them.

Shaun had to extract his hand from their clumsy tangle of limbs to open his door, and they staggered in when it swung open, Desmond barely managing to push it shut again before Shaun had him up against it once more, sliding his hand slowly down his chest, captivated by the hard planes of muscle he could feel through the thin fabric of Desmond's undershirt, then let his hand travel further down to rest _there_ and Desmond _moaned_, pressing into Shaun's palm, the sound cut off by Shaun's mouth, hungrily capturing Desmond's voice, his lips, his tongue, and hands were tearing at clothes, and then Desmond's hand brushed against him purposefully, and Shaun lost all ability for coherent thought—

* * *

When Shaun's brain regained the ability to string more than the barest handful of words together, remembered how to say more than _oh, god_ and _yes_ and _Desmond, Christ, Desmond,_ they were stretched on their backs across his bed, Desmond running his fingers softly over a little patch of bruised flesh on Shaun's neck.

"Sorry about this," he murmured.

Shaun tried to scowl, but could only manage a halfhearted frown and the barest shrug of his shoulders. "Rebecca will have a field day. Week. Oh, blimey, she is going to be _insufferable_."

Soft laughter shook Desmond's body, and he pressed a kiss to Shaun's shoulder. "Let her."

"Fine, but if she says 'I told you so,' I _will_ strangle her." That was probably a lie, seeing as he did owe her, and really, if she wanted to gloat a little bit that was fine, because if he could keep coming back to _this_, it would be _entirely_ worth it.


End file.
